


All the time  (APH France x reader)

by Reissgue



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Poor England (Hetalia), Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-02-28 17:12:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18760828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reissgue/pseuds/Reissgue
Summary: Alright so in All the Time it focuses around a severed relationship with France and the reader. There will be a lemon but it’s not a smash and go kind of thing there is development. There is a little bit of Prussia and the reader but it’s not as major.I don’t own hetalia or any of its characters!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys this is my first published fanfic I hope you enjoy! : )
> 
> ____ = your name
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Respire = breathe
> 
> Tout (tous) les temps = all the time

They were upset with one another again. It was a petty quarrel between the two that sparked fictional lightening bolts from both their foreheads. The tension fueled and riled up into a dubious exchange of looks. It was during a meeting with Arthur, Francis, and ____. As a result of sparked fears over the recent partnership when it came down to Ludwig and Roderich, it was justified that the three meet up over rising threats in Europe. It was a fear among the three that Ludwig would gain more power. One that was too great a risk.

As frenemies, Francis and Arthur knew about ____’s relationship with Gilbert, Ludwig’s brother. However, the two of them are still at odds when it came to how the relationship started. It happened out of thin air. One day, ____ was at the table discussing her and Gilbert’s cooperation. They did not know when she got with him. There were no clues, or hints, or signs; anything that signaled a budding relationship. It truly baffled the both of them. Something was off. It was just… too _good_.

Nonetheless, the two of them stayed clear of ill-mannered interrogations. It was out of respect but in a dire situation like this it is a situation that can be called for. They can use her for information. The relationship was an advantage at most. But it was one they ignored in order to maintain friendly ties with her.

That was where the meeting got heated.

Gilbert was honest with her. He told her everything. She knew what was going to happen and so ____ shunned them for their lack of acknowledgement when it came to the inevitable rise of German power. Annoyed at most, she would not stop nagging about their fault. She was furious because she has brought the problem to their concern a multitude of times. Times in which came to no avail.

Arthur backed him and Francis up, insinuating that the issue ____ brought up was hyperbole. He wanted to believe that her story was too drastic to be truthful. Yet here they are, sitting through another one of her rants. Was she justified?

Yes.

Arthur did not call her out for it. But Francis, being stuck-up, cocky, and rather arrogant; spoke his mind. He puffed out his chest and barked with an attitude, saying too much for comfort. In retaliation too ____’s blustering, he called her out for “sleeping” with the enemy. She stopped. Immediately.

____ looked off in shock and embarrassment in regards to the snarky comment. A light red hue popped onto her cheek. It was noticeable, despite her attempts to hide the fluster. Conflicted, ____’s eyebrows furrowed in frustration and she let out an annoyed huff.

They refused to take her seriously again. Even worst, they made a fool of her. He made a fool of her.

Perhaps it was the bit of truth that bothered her the most. Indeed it was true that she slept with the enemy. They did things for sure, but she could never find it within herself to stay overnight. She always went home. He has offered her to stay the night more than enough times; but it never happened. She would not let it.

Now there they were.

Francis stood upright in near vicinity, with his shoulders high and head straight up. His height alone established an overwhelming feeling over ____. She was a shadow under him and that is what he felt like. Superior. He let a “tsk” escape his snarled teeth as if he knew beyond a doubt that he was in the right. His arms were crossed pretentiously as ____ seemed to shrink down as her ribs felt like they were compressing the organs in her chest.

_Breathless._

Something was nabbing at her throat, restraining her from speech. So she stood still, a cat has stolen her tongue while her pupils shrank as Francis seemed to loom above her petite figure. But she feared no judgement. A nation and its people, its policies, its economy, and diplomacy are judged every second of every minute. A nation can be judged even by their own people. To fear judgement as a sovereign nation is setting up a downfall. One cannot allow themselves to take such folly to heart, for by doing so, they become weak.

A shiver jolted up ____’s spine.

On the contrary, Francis’s judgement was different. It seemed like a harsh mock-up born from logic. It just did not seem real. She looked at him. There was a disappointment and resentment in his eyes that she was unable to explain. She thought she knew the meaning behind every glint he gave. But being nothing more than an ex-wife out of diplomacy and thus being away from Francis now for so long, must have shuffled her accurate and intuitive observations. It was familiar but distant. Far too distant.

Perhaps that is why this interaction played out so weirdly between the two. The two of them were ill-fainted lovers set up in the manner of political affairs. History played out so that they were forced to be together. This was because their bosses wanted more money, more power, more alliances, and of course… land.

“Together” lasted a long time, longer than expected.

“Together” gave them the timetable to grow close to one another. “Together” gave them a chance of happiness. They took it. So they fell in love and were known for being inseparable; together like glue. But all in the grand scheme of politics, they had no control over the arranged marriage. They had no control over its beginning and end. Inevitably, there was a forceful split. A decision of such magnitude left the two in a state of tears and agony.

Relationships with nations were difficult. They could lie and steal. They could claim anything whether it be true or false. They were rare, the ones that did happen always ended up dying down and deteriorating in the long run.

It was getting to her.

____ began to feel her head ache, to which she responded by applying a little pressure to her temple. That is when it got to Francis. In just a moment, he too was able to detect the weariness in the air . It came around like a shock, causing Arthur to stiffen up in his seat. He looked away from the two while he kept his fountain pen on his paper. He wrote. It made him look productive enough to not get dragged into the quarrel.

For Francis, something in his head snapped; a rapid pang in his followed not soon after. His arms unfolded and he stepped back from ___. He fiddled around with the blonde locks behind his ear, shook his head, and stopped immediately. They were still staring at each other. His heart bounced as he averted his gaze, cutting off the prolonged eye contact. He gasped out of discomfort, blinking a couple times. Awkward.

His breathing became sharp and brisk and with every breath of air there was a shiver. The room was not cold in the slightest. Even the slightest bit of air filled his lungs with a melancholic spirit, one that refused to leave him.

 _Respire_.

A minute followed and Francis was able to recollect himself. Not completely but just enough. His vision still strayed far from ____. But as a distraction, Francis remained still, fiddling with the button on his cuff. ____, without rebuttal, rolled her pearl earring around her fingertips. To which Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed, hopping up and putting himself in between the two.

He directed his attention towards Francis, “I truly would hate to see you two fight again.”

The words came into one ear and left the other. Francis’s eyes shifted slowly to meet Arthur’s. His head barely budged but for sure it was a nod, one that lacked charisma and the suave nature that Francis often delivered. He looked over to ____, finally reestablishing eye contact. Her reaction was not explosive, she simply smiled. A split smile. The pent up anger has bottled itself up for the moment.

Arthur raised a brow at Francis, motioning him to say something.

Stuck.

Francis lingered around in his own thoughts trying to think of a statement to forgive and shade over the other that got him in this situation. Should he tell her he has no remorse for his statement? Should he go on about massive apologetic speech and suck up to her senses? Or should he keep it simple? But she may think it was illegitimate…

Francis took a heavy breath and sternly looked ____ in the eyes, “Dés- I’m sorry.” His lips seemed like they did not move, and the apology came out like a breath of air. Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, seemingly unsatisfied to what sounded like a half-assed statement. It would not go on forth and surprise him if it was.

Francis was a suave man; charismatic. His words were not always what they seemed to be and many of his own peace talks back in time were falsified, worthless. ____ was the same way. Charismatic, able to bend a persons will to her own. Her head remained as high as Francis’s; stubborn, paired with an ironclad interior accompanied by a child’s smile. Perhaps that ability was what helped them through the years.

But ____ knew when to speak. She held her tongue when necessary.

Francis?

Not so much.

The silence remained undying and Francis just bobbled his head consistently, waiting for a response. The bobble was undermined. But time was passing on at a harsh slow rate. His heartbeat quickened while previous similar experiences sped through his head. He just needed her to accept his apology.

All he could do now was wait.

He took a deep breath.

_Respire_

He sure as hell did it all over again.

_Tout les temps_

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back! Thanks for people that actually read this lol : )
> 
> All legitimate notes are in the beginning of the story
> 
> Enjoy!

He still struggled to make eye contact with her following his quiet and slurred apology. It was genuine. It was not often that Francis would break down his pride and ____ knew that. For the very least, it was easier for her to believe in his honesty. There was no time or mental space to be wasted on debating her supposed truth. Even her own heart believed he was truthful; yet it rose from the brink of insult in the blink of an eye. The insult without a doubt still tore knives into her back but now was not the time for a late lover’s quarrel.

____ remained silent, allowing the Frenchman’s apology to settle in. She took a shallow breath and nodded.

“Accepted,” she whispered.

Francis could breathe again. Perhaps it was the sense of enlightenment, seeing his former lover backing down into her high chair. Perhaps it was the fact that she continued to tolerate his harsh words and treacherous strides upon her weaknesses. It amused his own pride; seeing her close off was a win. He knew it wasn’t right. At all. Her acceptance of this newfound form of relationship meant he could constantly treat her the same way again, and again, and again, _and again-_

It was only after their inevitable split that a profound sense of disengagement rose from Francis. Before everything happened he treated her the way a good king is ought to treat his queen. But times have changed with war and entitlement. His insults became regular. But with everything he threw at her, it never provoked a reaction. She bought it all the time, letting it go with wispy forgiveness.

He needed that reaction.

It was not his motive to stand in glory and bask in his arrogance. If he were to get a reaction out of her cinched teeth it would validate a personal victory line. But over what?

An emotional detachment?

If she snapped in fury it would show the world that they despised each other. It would shade away all the rumors shrouded around them. It would cloak the connection that they once shared but she refused. She kept herself collected. She remained calm.

Even now, her lips did not conform to sharp shrills and her arms did not flail vigorously with clawing hands. She remained still and fiddled with the top button between her collar. She could never hate him. Seeing Francis was rare now, at least, not as common. For the most part they saw each other during conferences. He made every interaction bitter and built upon insult.

She knew he did not mean it. How did she know?

Maybe it was that blank slate; that gray in his eyes when he dared to trek upon a grave of negativity. Maybe it was only her that noticed. He could only wish that he hated her.

Everything was fabricated in his actions. The way he spoke to her with the movement of his tongue and insults memorized. The way he avoided her with every step, practiced and devoted to distancing himself from her. His movements were always stiff and robotic around her . It was when he trapped himself in his own miscalculations did his true intentions become obvious.

It was no different today.

_Tout les temps._

____ has walked out the room.

Her stride was not quick nor slow, it was relaxed. She was walking away from something normal, nonchalant. Now he listened to her footsteps as they grew farther away. His eyes flickered up as if he had to check what was happening within his surroundings, they widened. His jaw dropped with the instinctive reaction of wanting to call out for her. He did not.

____ just left him again.

But what was he to expect any better?

There was a weight hanging onto his feet that prevented him from chasing after her. Francis stood still as an aching in his head pounded and surged through his line of thought. The floor beneath him moved and gushed like waves while Arthur opted in and put a hand on Francis’s shoulder. He gripped it with a bit of pressure with an attempt to alert Francis out of his head space.

He just remained still, interpreting the situation like it was a novel. He looked at nothing. His normal thoughts ran with the wind as they were replaced with the melancholy seeped into his veins, making up a special situation that landed in his favor. He forgot where he was and where he stood. He forgot about the weather and the purpose of the meeting. He zoned out lost and distraught.

Fingers tapping; that was what his heartbeat sounded like. It was somber, quiet, slow, and weak. It was like a clock with a “second hand”, like droplets falling from the gutters after a spring rain. But he felt it nonetheless, it was a pulsating sensation that flooded his senses. A low hum, a faint tapping in his ear. A musical rhythm surging in his veins. It was a song only heard by himself, nonexistent to others but a concert for him. It was alive and livid.

He crooked his neck while his eyes were still dead panned on an imaginary target. That tapping continued as a pressure clogged his throat. Only now is he convinced that he should of retracted that statement. His head filled with water and it was steaming. The bubbles exploded against his nerves and the heat has font to his head. It roared.

The classical music in his ear drastically switched into a high-pitched ring. The surroundings became pale and the light above his head glistened at blinding rates. His thoughts were accelerating at the speed of light. A fury of thoughts rethinking, recalculating, reworking the events that just happened. Why did she walk away? Why did he say those things?

Why?

For sure the room was spinning around him. His shoulders grew tense and Arthur noticed it. It was a damn about to break and for sure if the electricity kept acting up there was going to be a blackout. Francis stayed still but his pupils raged as they bounced from side-to-side while his breathing became rampant.

“Francis,” Arthur said.

Arthur had no idea. The day started off as an official meeting and it ended up by becoming a cliché love story. Perhaps the clichés were not so far from reality. Now here he was comforting his frenemy in an attempt to understand what the living hell was going on in his mind. Has he seen Francis like this? Yes.

Francis was a vile of sentiment. He has seen hell before and for sure he can see it again with a blank stare. He has been through wars, fire, and an audience member at one too many guillotines. Yet he was soft when it came to his own lovers. A nation should not meddle with a human love interest, they are too fragile. A nation should not meddle with the likes of another nation, they get played. Hard.

Arthur was the heartbreaker most of the time so he thought Francis was just being a little bitch.

But aside from that he loved many things like gold, beer, tea, the royal family, his flag, and his land. Especially the overseas land, he loved that stuff too. If there was any other bigger European narcissist it was definitely Arthur. The one thing Arthur would never get straight is his religion.

However, he has seen loss. The one pain he had was when Alfred decided to declare his own independence. He fought back like the world was going to end. Yet he lost and it took a toll on him for as long as he could remember. The difference is that he moved on. Sure it took awhile but he did.

Then a minute passed and Francis’s hand quivered.

_Respire._

Francis pinched the bridge of his nose while ropes tugged the sides of his lips down. Francis shook his head in an attempt to relieve the pain burrowing in his temple. The room was quiet enough to hear his blonde locks of hair brush against the cotton of his shirt.

It was cloudy outside. Beyond the windows was a dull display of cuddled grays. It was enough to bring Arthur back into the undying silence. However, he was quiet. It was not of his interest to interfere with the relationship or help them consolidate in any manner. In fact, it irked him. An interaction between ____ and Francis could make any nation or any person for the manner feel rude, useless, and disheveled.

Arthur has been around the two more often than others and he was there to see ____ walk off just as much as Francis broke down. It put him out of place many times, being there to see Francis trip off his own pride and ego; especially being the one who comforted him through it. It was not a shared pain, more simply being there to be there. To be morally right. Sure there were times when he disliked Francis, many times. Yet, seeing Francis beat himself up over internal conflicts allowed the two of them to reconnect with that humanity they trapped off as children.

It was not much. But it would never hurt to feel like proper civilians, capable of “people” things.

How did the other’s feel about it?

Bach could give less of a crap, his neutrality would not allow him to choose a side on the matter. Berwald himself is made uncomfortable when he is put near the situation. He is always silent and glares but around ____ and Francis he is more kept together. Antonio has tried to escort and guide Francis through the rough split but he never managed. He has offered beer and wine paired with a night out partying but it did not amuse him. For Lovino?

Lovino thought Francis was a pussy.

Then there was Gilbert, the “enemy.” For a truth, Francis and Gilbert were close like glue. But ever since Francis murdered and plunged a sword through Holy Rome- their relationship has been on a rough patch. ____ left before the start of the First World War. Then she went on and became all buddy-buddy with Gilbert. No one knew why. It sure as hell bothered Francis by a ton…

Seeing her go off like that.

Now here he is, scorned and defeated by the same obstacle. In a state of longing with his own previous enemy being there for comfort.

_Tout les temps…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just enjoy :-)

There was still no sign of movement in the room. 

Arthur tightened his grip on Francis’s shoulder, “Francis.” 

A tear fell and its droplet made a sound as it splattered on the wooden floor. In a minimum of time, the splatters became more frequent while Arthur’s grip became looser out of pity. Francis just stood there; sulking to a heartbreak he caused on his own terms. ____ did not do anything. Which was contrary to his own belief.

It was just his own immaturity.

The guilt of his own failure came again to haunt him with every sharp breath he took. After all the times he has done this to her, all the insults and mockery, the guilt still sank deep into his soul. Every time the melancholy visits it adds to its last, building stronger each time. Every storm grew as the climate of this personal situation collapsed into the heat of his emotions. Faithless, he was acting like a godless man.

He believed he was in the wrong place, whining and stooping down for the love of another person. Yet he could not lie to himself and say that it is not what he needed. He knows he does not need it. He desires it. As much as humans more often than not need not their selfish desires, it drives them, their passion; they’ll do anything for the things they never need. Desire disappoint him, yet it gave him his own satisfaction. It was enough for an answer, but weak in structure. 

Desire is a want, desire is to fulfill oneself; it is greedy.

Greed is its own sin. 

But can the love for someone acquaint for the definition of sin? Why would a good emotion equal itself with something derogatory? In truthfulness, it should not.

He hated him. Gilbert was taller, much more masculine. He had a prideful stature, a courageous and exhilarating man to be around, intolerable. His jaw was sharp and his nose was at a perfect angle. Clean, he was very tidy contrary to popular belief. During meetings he would have his arm wrapped around ____ while him and Francis exchanged toxic glances. It was like Gilbert was out for him. 

No one knew she would get with a man like him. Why would she get with a man like him?

Maybe because he was keen, he bested Francis in war. Him and his brother. What a shock it was when Ludwig looked far too much like Holy Rome, maybe too much of a coincidence. ____ made it out of the Great War practically unharmed and she was there to trade off and barter secrets with the opposing side. Once her people could have been involved, she began playing her own decisive game of diplomacy. Doing unexpected treaties, favoring unexpected sides…

Every time she was with Gilbert, walking with him with solemn eyes and a well-prepped outfit; there was always something else. She smiled around him far too much. She laughed at all his jokes and prepared a reaction before he let them loose. She read him like an open book. As she walked and spoke around the meeting room, she would give everyone an agenda. Arthur’s was always different in scripture but no one questioned. 

How did information spread?

No one knows.

No one else knew. So when Francis got headaches when ____ seemed happy around him, he knew of the feeling all too well. He knew his patience got demolished and tampered when he saw the two of them a foot too close. Her smile was wide, too wide, but it was a smile nonetheless. She seemed too happy around the Prussian man. Too happy to be out of Francis’s company. 

He should be happy for her.

Who knew it was possible to break your own heart? His own heartbreak came in waves. It started when the two finally split after years of good communication and cooperation. The two had no say in what their bosses wanted, their people disagreed with the relationship. There were claims of poor economy and suppressive trade agreements. There were claims of rising homelessness and jobless people. All the claims and lies caused them to split.

In just moments they were forced to live separately, eat separately, clean separately, think separately, and negotiate separately. Afterwards, both of them were quiet. Silent. The best they could do was move on and survive on their own terms. Their people were ecstatic with the diplomatic changes and they now think they have recovered from the ashes… with the pain of two others. 

His heartbreak was monotone and it peaked at every sight of her. It grabbed him by the throat and cut the wrong wires of the bombs in his head. A peace and prairie of orchids was swept away into desolation, the image of something lost. He hoped she would bring him an answer but with her indifference she left him confused and drowning in question. Not being able to consolidate with her unwillingness to snap was his fault, she allowed herself to avoid conflict unchecked.

Francis removed his hand from the bridge of his nose leaving a red mark. He swayed he some bits and pieces of hair away from his face and diligently wiped off the tears falling across his cheek. His teeth clattered together as he sobbed some more. 

Arthur paused in his own thoughts and opened his mouth slightly. What in the right mind was he to say anything about the situation? Who was he to say anything about it? Should he- screw it.

“Francis you need to get over her.” 

In an instant, Francis walked away. A snarl painted his face as he dragged a hand through his hair. His anger escaped through his veins. Frustrated, he banged both of his fists on the nearest windowsill; a temporary reliever.

“Tous les temps!” He yelled. He circled the room with his hands entangled in his locks. His pace was consistent, quick-footed, and swift. They were paired with heavy rhythmic stomps and his heels clicked along the floor.

The tears let loose from pent up stress. They fell from pent up anger. They fell to the ground in their own embodiment of despair and longing. Now suppose every tear that drifted to his jawline was meant to relieve him even just a little, how long would that take? At what cost?  
It was not enough to begin with.

Arthur stood still, shoulders hunched, head down, fingers intertwined. It was not his place. 

Francis’s feet eventually began to grow with fatigue and his breathing slowed and softened. He took a short vacation to his own headspace for a little too long. He still wanted to puke. God he was restless. Even when he gets home he probably would not pick up a spoon or fork for the night. After today, lunch would suffice.

While sighing, he pulled a chair out from under the table. It squeaked and made a horrific scratching sound that caused Arthur’s shoulders to perk up. He sat down and crossed his legs while resting his arms behind his head. He took a breather and leaned back.

Crack-

The years have painted themselves permanently on his bones. They popped during the slightest of stretches and a peaceful sigh glided through his lips as he managed to pop another one. He looked up at the ceiling, trying to think of something else. The ocean waves surged around his head, static flowed like neurons.

He inhaled deeply. 

Arthur walked over to Francis but he simply refused to bat an eye. He was tired of listening to the nagging British accent. He also ignored him in spite.

“I don’t care,” Arthur mumbled while organizing Francis’s notes. His handwriting was in script, it was weightless. Every swirl and curve was given a personality, it was excellent penmanship. There was no secret in his love letters, just vivid and eloquent strokes of a fountain pen. He collected them and stacked them accordingly, Francis was organized in thoughts and paper; today was just an off day.

Francis rolled his eyes and Arthur scoffed, “you need to get over her you are a grown man. How about you stop breaking your heart over the same damn woman. I swear Francis, you always have a stick up your arse when she breathes within thirty feet of you. I thought Joanne would have taught you a lesson but I guess sulking and mourning the living is harder than the dead-“

“Keep your stakes and torches away from ____,” Francis muttered. He delivered a sharp glare as Arthur went over to the coat hanger. He threw on his trench coat and dropped Francis’s coat right in front of him. He bent over and picked up his suitcase.

Arthur snickered, “got your attention, huh? Well, the night is falling upon us you should take your leave.”

“Shut up.”

“Will do…”

Francis sat down and just thought to himself… 

Tous les temps…


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur walked out after his interaction with Francis, being simply too tired to deal with him any longer. He sauntered down the halls and carried his weight to the lobby. He whistled a tad bit only for himself to enjoy. 

He saw her.

____ was cozy on one of those fancy and dusty lobby chairs while looking off into a fireplace. The flames crackled and sizzled as the smaller embers wafted behind the chains. The heat floated and caressed her senses, she was in peace. Her legs were crossed and her hair was neatly done with a clip holding it together. Her blazer had no wrinkle.

She fiddled with her fingers as the blaze ignited in her pupils. She was hypnotized. Her eyes were sunken as her focus was tuned on one thing and one thing only. The fire. Every floating bit of flame communicated with the beat of her heart. It burned just as bright.

Her head was thrown underwater too, but in a different way. She was engulfed in her own rampant thoughts.

Arthur walked over behind her, “____?”

She did not bat an eye and continued to stare deep in the flames. Her face was unchanged and her look was deprived. There was a weariness in her eyes…

She sighed and her head tilted to the right, “is he feeling better?”

Without any question, Arthur turned towards the hallway only to see no one. Francis has not left the room, not yet. 

“Yeah,” he muttered. 

She did not trust a word he said, she knew exactly what was happening because it happened all the time.

Tous les temps.

“Okay,” she replied with the hope that he would leave. Now was not the time for Arthur’s company. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Arthur said. ____ waved and then he was gone. 

She stayed for five more minutes in the wake of the fire, listening to its thoughts. But Francis still did not show up.

Once the sky turned a little more grey, ____ picked up her belongings and left. 

It was a long day.

She needed a break.

She stared back at the fireplace as the scent of pine and burnt bark flooded around the lobby. It casted long patterned shadows over the carpet, shadows that began to poke at her feet. She stood up in slight discomfort, alarmed by the approaching shade; she stood up and walked out of it. Her peripherals watched the bright orange and yellow flames sway and curve with their fabulous display. The warmth continued to warp around the hairs of her skin.

The revolving doors twirled and let in a gust of air that knocked ____ out of her trance. She picked up her suitcase and took one last glance at the flames. As the hurls of air carried her hair behind her she sighed as the embers licked at her eyes. Footsteps approached and one of the security guards threw another piece of wood into the ashes.

Someone tended to those flames. The heat grew strong with passion as it engulfed and overwhelmed the log. ____’s heartbeat spiked with the flames too; with no emotion to correlate with. She stuck her head high and strutted for the revolving doors; pushing her way through the struggles of the day.

As she took a breath of the air outside the building she waited a moment and climbed onto the handle of her suitcase.

She walked away.

Tous les temps…


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Very long chapter up ahead I hope you enjoy! Btw there are purposely no translation notes for this chapter

After the long day ____ stood still under the shower downpour. At high pressure, the water rained and flickered along the coat of her skin. The water droplets muttered a song and jumbled together a tango, a dance of quick rhythmic grooves that indulged her senses. White steam wafted around the bathroom as it lifted from the heat of the water. The ceramic tiles beneath her feet were warm to the touch and the shower handle radiated a bright silver. 

Her neck was stiff as she zoned out; staring at shallow imaginary objects. It was as if her lungs were being engulfed with boiling water and paired with fiery mist seeping through her throat in through long timely breaths. Out of nowhere, blood-cooling water spurted out of the shower head; only then to switch back almost instantaneously into warmth. A scratchy shriek wriggled its way out of her throat as a distressed and confused shiver snaked through her spine. Reality hit her through the means of ice and fire; literally.

Her eyes grew wide whilst her pupils shrank along with the stiffening of her shoulders. Her breathing hitched while hundreds of goosebumps perked up on her arms. In a minute; they receded with the arrival of warmth and calmness that recollected her senses.

Yet, there was a tightness in her chest, an uneasy pressure. But she did not let the physical feeling kick the door into her head, she ignored it with the idea that it was meaningless. The warm water made her quite happy but there was something else in the atmosphere. It was a stranger to her; something that she was unable to comprehend, unable to explain, unable to speak of. She could make an attempt but it would fail in a split.

Whatever.

____ picked up a bar of soap and lathered it around in between her palms. Soap duds formed and she weaved the bar of aroma through the round curves and sharp edges of her body. She was a goddess in her own right and her body was her palace; she worshipped and provided it in silky clean riches. She hummed catchy shower tunes while scrubbing the dead skin free with a month old loofa that has been due for replacement. 

Lavender and olive oil scents lofted around while their strength was concentrated in the small curtained shower place. She picked up a bottle of shampoo from a rack and popped it open. The bottle was half empty and she poured out an ample amount onto her hands.

She clicked her tongue and bobbed her head to a song tuning in her brain as she dug the shampoo into her scalp. The water from above washed away the foaming soap bubbles and she picked up the conditioner and tried to squeeze some into her hand.

Tried.

The bottle was completely empty. An irritated snarl clouded her face. Her eyebrows dropped low as she squinted at the feather-weighted conditioner bottle. It was already dented from various other attempts of trying to get the product out. In a fit of rage she started banging to bottle against her palm, vigorously bashing it like there was a cure for cancer hidden in it. She was too stern and determined to get every last drop and cent of conditioner.

There was enough. If there was not she would have filled the bottle with water and continue from there. Relieved; she placed the bottle down, a foreshadowing for future disappointment. With a flick of the wrist, the water flow was gone following the rinsing of the final hair product. ____ gracefully walked through the shower curtains and her toes curled on the mat. Her head was high as her damp hair flowed and tugged behind her. The steam added to dramatic effect as it flourished outwards like an explosion. She extended her arm for the nearest rack and wrapped a towel around herself.

Her silhouette tracked her to the mirror over her sink. She was youthful considering that aging was not so common among the nation’s. She picked up a comb and drove it along to detangle her knots. She stared at herself in high admiration as she appreciated and danced with the beauty in the mirror. She was encapsulated, stolen, and caged by her own self-love and beauty.

Internal narcissist; just like Francis. But in their terms it was only extreme self-acceptance. Perhaps it was just the side affects that the devil in the mirror provided.

Her phone rang from the bedroom. 

____ paused all her activities and abandoned the comb on the counter. She sped through the hallway like a bomb was about to blow and took a large turn into her bedroom. In mere seconds, she snatched the phone off its stand and perched it to her ear.

“Hello?” She chimed while tapping her fingernails on her nightstand. 

“Mademoise-“

The phone was slammed back on its stand at the speed of light. ____ sat down and dipped her head into her hands with her feet on their toes; her back grew tense again. That voice. Her heart jumped at his full voice, she was astonished and frozen stiff like a statue. Her body remained with its back turned over, shoulders hunched as her neck strained her vertebrae. Her heart launched itself into her throat. It bursted into vivacious uninterrupted beats that hammered through her breast and linen towel. The accent, the pitch, the tone, the speed, the person…

She cannot talk to him. 

In person, Francis was a business partner. He was a man she had to work with and without any reluctance she had no choice but get accustomed to it. For the most part. But a call was different in its own special devious way. It was private, mischievous and far too personal. A call was intentional and that is the one thing that toyed with the strings on her back.

He called her because he wanted to. He spun and twirled his fingers around the dial-up to listen to her. It was no mistake or accident; it was entirely deliberate. He wanted the call to pull through.

But did she?

It was all too sudden. ____’s vision began to warp and blur. Her decorated wallpaper began to fade to white as the room disappeared. The only thing she could focus at was the telephone on her nightstand. She could not refute and back her stance away from the eyesore of a communication device. It stood out to her in its own glory. To her it was the butchering flames of hell.   
A heavy silence reached from the heavens and engulfed her soul, as if it tore out of her body. Perhaps it floated off since it was the only thing thicker than he air. Her weary eyes glanced at every corner in defeat because of that damned telephone. She shifted uncomfortably in her disheveled bedsheets; accompanied with sweaty palms cinching the blanket together with speedy friction. The fabric burned under her fingertips as the soles of her feet rumbled and tapped against the carpet. Her thoughts swung like a mobile, picturesque objects swirling around the atmosphere in the room. It was the ghost that hugged her in own space. 

Her shadow was clinging to her physique as she remained in her own trance, hypnotized by her own irrational concern. She dug her face once more into her hands, leaving minuscule gaps in between her fingers. She stared at the carpet through rigid metal bars in a desperate attempt to see the light of day. Her eyelashes tickled the wrinkles between the bends of her fingers every time she blinked.

Why would he call her?

What did he want?

She tried to be indifferent. But hearing his voice in such a manner caused her heart to ricochet against her rib cage. She brought her legs up and curled them to her breast, hugging them tight and close. Her cheek laid upon her kneecaps while her now frizzy and untamed, damp hair coated her forehead.

A tear fell from the side of her eye, trailing over the bridge of her nose and falling onto her beds wrinkled sheets. Not a single sob ran through her lips. Not a peep. Her nape grew sore as silent tears flew away from their ducts. It burned like the fireplace but it was the Frenchman that set herself a blaze. 

The stillness brushed her skin like silk, dancing away with her soul and patting down her goosebumps. Fear came with the day. It came with the meeting, the frigid weather, and Francis.

Respir-

Breathe.

A cry rose. The rain drops pattering on the outside of her window grew quiet as if to listen to her lone cries. The nighttime breeze howling behind the glass became slow and gentle. The weight of her conflict pressed into her shoulder blades while the cicadas outdoors chimed their own song. ____’s mind short circuited and sparked up while her own heart fumed with pitch black combustions. 

What was he thinking?

She just blocked Francis out. Maybe he was upset with her. Maybe he was waiting on the other line with a glass of fine wine; drinking it under the lampshade. Maybe he was also in bed, in the same spot, by his nightstand with a phone in hand, fiddling with the wire and waiting. He could also be doing some paperwork that sat and collected dust on his desk. He could be cooking too.

But most likely he rehearsed what he was going to say to her. He may have even practiced and revised his words hundreds or millions of times. After the willpower it took to carry himself he finally grew over the fear of rejection with the slight hope that she would hear him out. But she shut him down; just like that.  
The guilt came to melt on her as she perked her head back up to stare at the phone. Guilt; a human emotion. How much of it can a prideful person endure? Nations develop pride with power. Her and Francis were beautiful, but their attitudes and glory kicked them down to Earth. They abandoned their humanity for power and graceless stances. The sun shined upon their grins like it did for other great nations before. That limelight was utterly toxic.

How can a nation with so many values and riches step down?

Truth is, they often do not.

Now here the pride has weakened her. Such a cruel simple action played games in her veins. Francis stepped down from his obnoxious laughs and high chair to speak to her. He gave up the achievements that made him so great for just a moment to share time with her.

But has she?

She never fought back with him. It was a fair argument to say that their quarrels were at the fault of them both. ____ never reacted and made interactions far more dramatic because she held herself back. She stayed composed so that she would never prove dissentient. Even when he was the first to snap and clench his wrists people still found reason to blame ____. Arthur knew why. If she ever argued it would give Francis what he wanted thus making her lose in default. It would help them move on but she could not stoop herself so damn low.

But there was more to that. In every interaction with him the fire in her eyes raged through quiet bits of light. Her body was wide awake with every lousy response and solemnity. He just made her feel so alive…

She was just as pridefully confused.

Now that he was calling her; he had the moral high ground. In this exact moment he was better than her; so much better. No, it was not about morality. She needed to calm down and suppress those nationalistic thoughts for the moment. It was not worth it. It was not necessary. She needed to mend back her own good will 

The two of them locked away the problem for far too long. She placed her legs back down to the floor with the energy provided from the remnants of her pride. She leaned forward and lurched carefully to the nightstand. Her hand reached out for the phone with very rigid and stiff moves. She had to melt away the icicles and chills flurrying around her lungs.

What if this was not right?

Her fingers tensed up as an invisible barrier prevented her from grasping the phone. She took a breather and inhaled sharply while grabbing the phone handle within her fist. Her hand grew sore as her muscles were denser than stone, she gripped that phone as if letting it go would cost her a life sentence. But she was too close to give it up now and so she leaned further and let her finger swirl around the dial-up. Her movements were loose yet hardened by the veins curling under her skin. She was circumspect in dragging the phone to her ear; paired with no sagacious reasoning. 

Then the phone began to ring and every time it did strong shakes rocked her body. What was she to expect? In truthfulness she has pursued this call out of no logical reasoning other than being “right.” Yet at the same time she was willing to speak to him. Nothing much. She just wanted to hear him out. It occurred to her that someone picked up the phone on the other line and she leaned in; clinging to the phone with both hands.

“Bonjour, qu’est ce?”

There were no language barriers in between the two. She still understood every word he said. Sure she was no longer as polished in French but she knew enough. The cat got her tongue as she stumbled over thoughts and with no thought she called for him, “Francis?”

On the other line he whispered and exclaimed in his own shock, “____?”

“Ouais,” ____ smiled bitterly, finding her own sense of comfort in his voice. Without fear or precautionary thoughts she let his own language roll off the tip of her tongue. It was all too natural. The anxiety that rattled her faded off into the somber of the night. Her shoulders relaxed and her death grip on the phone became light as if she were holding a feather. Her smile was foolish, she herself could not even catch it. Nor would she know why she was doing it.

The experience was heartfelt; it was a moment that the two have not shared for a while. He was already in a trance to her voice. It was sweet and simple. It was whole-hearted and grouped with no negative intention. At least; that was easier to assume. 

It was all meant to be this way.

“What is it?” ____ asked.

“I wanted to invite you for dinner tomorrow,” his voice quivered and ____’s smile faded into a blank slate. His accent replayed in her mind as she began to doubt her confidence in the call. Francis already knew that she was with Gilbert. He already knew that they have been together for years. But maybe he was not asking for a date. Foolish. Any person with common sense would know what he was asking her of.

“Franci-“

“If you refuse it’s okay, I just-“ he cut himself off. ____ leaned onto the phone, invested, impatient, and needing him to continue. A shaky breath escaped his lips. One that was loud enough to be heard on the line. It sent a chain reaction of twitches down ____’s spine, giving her mind the opportunity to flow off into plains of uncertainty.

“I just thought-“

He stopped again and the strength of his emotions grew like a pained expression on ____’s face. He was nervous. A madman could make that assumption. The anticipation stole air from her lungs and it grew like lumps deep in her body. She held her tongue so he could think for himself. He needed that time. 

But she broke already, “Francis, you can tell me anything,” ____ bursted. The word vomit slipped through her mind without checks and flew with faulty elegance. In the heat of the moment they were vulnerable, relying on every next exchange of words. It was a game. One that led them both into loss.  
But perhaps for the moment they believed that it was somehow a diplomatic negotiation for their own people. Diplomacy does not belong there. Not now.

It was their choice to defend their spirit and win at all costs. Should they snap and lash at the other? Should they manipulate the moment to their own interest? The both of them were on the sides of their beds mingling with the phone chord. Their hearts ticked like time bombs just waiting for the right second to burst into victory.

It wasn’t worth it.

It was like a risky game of chess. Both of them moved their pawns and knights, yet refusing to capture any pieces. Even if their pawn were to reach near the end they would not exchange it for anything too strong. The rooks stayed back so the castle would not fall. The bishops remained still in their holy buildings because there was no faith or glory in this moment. But ____ moved her queen into a decisive position, checking the king in the process.

Francis in exchange would castle the king to protect it from the lingering threat. His head was still in a deep state of melancholy, endlessly probing and fiddling with the wire. The stress made its own appearance in his skin. His complexion was dull and dry while his eyes grew red in strain.

“I just thought that it would be nice to talk to you,” Francis said. He rolled his shoulders and it felt like the weight faded into thin air. He finally said something. Not so eloquent but that was all that mattered.

Rapidly she replied, “I would love to.”

“D’Accord, I’ll send you the location through mail and er-“

“Francis?”

Respire.

“Is nine good for you?”

Breathe.

“Nine,” she sighed.

“Bonne nuit.”

He hung up and the realization of her own fault smacked her like lightening. ____ shoved the phone off the nightstand and shrieked a curse to herself. There was a meaning behind every jagged insult, a meaning behind every thrown fist, and a meaning behind every hoarse shout. Every muscle in her body tensed into minor cramps.

She paced around the room with her teeth baring out. Her back was hunched and her movements became unpredictable. Her head flicked around and her drying hair flared with it. The tangles lingered back into her locks and the rain outside her window poured. The winds howled while the interior of her home backed down to the anger of its owner. 

Unable to contain herself, she hid away under the comfort of her own blanket, wiping off every tear. The lamp by her side flickered a familiar orange hue. 

She was on fire. 

Her own grief reached for higher peaks with every sob; never fading even with deep breaths. She forced herself to believe that she could not tolerate him. She refused to believe she did and could. But after peaking and taking a look at the mess she created in her room, she tilted her head on the bed frame.

What was that thing that Francis said a lot?

The tenseness remained despite her curves sinking into the mattress. Her thought just frenzied around in violent sparks of her own instability. But they would not matter until tomorrow comes. There was no point in bailing. 

She let out a solemn sigh and sank into the world under her blanket; forgetting about the lights. 

“Tous les temps,” she whispered.

Tous les temps…


	6. Chapter 6

“Francis…”

“Hm?” Francis chimed as he leaned into the phone. He twiddled his sleek gold-lined fountain pen between his fingers. The hearty stack of paperwork separating him from his peace and relaxation remained untouched by all except dust. The work was scattered and painted the landscape of Francis’s mind. There were treaties mixed with military orders and laws; proposed laws and odd ones. The papers dated back years far before present and the work only kept adding. As a lightbulb flickered overhead, the strain in Francis’s eyes became more prominent. 

“You called her didn’t you?” Arthur asked. Francis looked up at the light and took a sharp breath; clenching the pen between his fingertips. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. A sigh escaped his lips after he clicked his tongue. He knocked on the pile of papers as a familiar pulse rattled in his chest. He let go of his pen and began rolling it around back and forth, back and forth, back again and-

“Francis!”

“Quoi!” Francis retorted. Arthur’s thick and lofty cockney accent was worst over phone. His call caused Francis to shift in his seat. His blonde hair brushed over his wrinkled shirt, the tie hung over his color loosely. A pang lightly slapped Francis in the head as he processed his own dilemma.

“You called her didn’t you!” Arthur scolded. 

“Oui,” Francis said. He placed the phone down on his desk. Not only did it allow the wire to rest but it made Arthur’s nagging seem more distant. 

“What the hell were you thinking!” 

“Eh,” Francis murmured. He stood up causing the floor planks to creak. He got quick to work on another distraction; fixing his shitstorm of papers. He flowed through all of them. He fixed and stacked them in correct order rather efficiently. A clean workplace was better in the grand scheme of things. 

He picked up a past trade deal between him and ____ from one corner of the desk while the light seemed to beam brighter upon it. He gulped down his own spit while examining the deal with a keen eye. He put it down and he said, “Just let me be happy.”

“What kind of fucking happy are you talking about?”

His mind was clearer than usual. It steered away from the ____drama following their most recent interaction. He did what his heart requested and he is set to see her tomorrow for dinner. After all, she said yes. He felt redeemed. It was like reaching out to her brought him a sudden clarity that mended his senses. 

“____ is with a man already. She is with the Prussian! The German!”

“I know.”

Francis furrowed his eyebrows and he stopped working. He pinched the bridge of his nose and held his tongue. It was wrong. He asked out somebody who already had a “significant other” and asked her out for dinner. He was meddling with politics, people, relationships- how could he go so low? But even then; she picked up the call, she was not sleeping with him, and she does not live with him. Gilbert said that they lived together and she relinquished a place of her own. Perhaps he was busy, perhaps he was not home, but what if-

It clicked. The Prussian lied to them.

“You’re going to cause so much trouble, Gilbert will hunt you down and this time it’s more personal!”

Francis argued, “But she said yes.”

On the other line there was a vast silence. Arthur was dumbfounded, it did not make any sense. Why would she say yes to something as irresponsible as this?

“You asked her out?”

Francis hummed with affirmation as he placed papers into separate cabinets. All of them were filled with dozens of files; some of them dated far back into centuries. The cabinets clanged and squeezed as the tiny wheels failed in motion. They squeezed and scraped upon wood. He reached for a key and unlocked one of the smaller drawers with letters and confidential documents in his other hand. He was prepared to stuff them in but something caught his eye. 

He paused and dropped the papers at the sight of a wooden box. He picked it up like it was a feather and circled it around for his observation. It was smooth and polished, the hinges had no rust. He opened it with anticipation and frowned at its contents. They laid untouched in past glory; two gold-banded wedding rings. They were simple pieces of jewelry with no extravagant, eye-catching design. That was the job of the engagement ring. 

He placed the box down and picked up the larger of the two rings. He raised it to eye level, “Deus nos innxit,” it read. It meant “god joined us” in Latin. He stared at the ring and slipped it onto his finger. 

Does she even believe in god anymore?

Her ring read “, Mon cœur est a vous.” It said “you have my heart” in Francis’s tongue. There was no need to reassure himself the words for he remembered it all. Those rings symbolized infinity and being “long-lasting.” He brought his hand to his chin and held it. 

“You still love her don’t you?”

“No I don’t,” Francis backed. He soared into his own imagination and listened to faint wedding bells. The only shadows were delivered by the wings of flying doves. It was the bright red roses and the lengthy veil that delivered him into her arms. They failed to understand at that moment; the meaning of the stained glass entering colorful light or the nation’s gathering in rowed up pews. They were wedded under stone angels, crosses, and rose windows. A choir of people and harmonious organs supported her beauty down the aisle.

“You still love her don’t you?”

They failed to learn the significance of “till death do us part” until long after. Sure it was the town mayor that legally determined their marriage status but they cuffed it religiously. The new linens were assorted and they were treated kindly to colorful sugar almonds. The devotion came after. The romance and activities came after. The trust and lifelong bond came far after marriage because it was a political marriage after all. So maybe it was not legit.

“You still love her don’t you?”

But it did not matter. All that mattered was them and for some reason their British friend that got notoriously drunk during the ceremony.

“Francis!” 

Jumping out of headspace, Francis removed the wedding ring and placed it back in the box. 

“Oui,” he admitted.

Arthur barked, “Cancel that date!”

“No,” Francis spat. 

“It’s for the best.”

“It’s for the best!” Francis mocked. “Burning my people was the best for me, huh?”

“Francis,” Arthur muttered. He was surprised to have bounced back in his relationship with Francis. Nations were brutal and perhaps they still are but many of the older ones have committed unspeakable atrocities. He burned his first lover but she was a human. A fragile human. Perhaps it could have even been Francis’s fault.

“What,” Francis sneered.

“I’m sorry I really-“

Francis hung up the phone and stretched. He already sent out dinner details to ____. Tomorrow was inevitable and it was not a time to overthink the situation. He sat back and cracked his knuckles.

“Croyez-moi.”


End file.
